The Perfect Daughter
by Courtney2
Summary: Most days she wishes she could forget, but this is one day when she wishes that she could remember.


Title: The Perfect Daughter

Author: Courtney

Disclaimer: Nope, still not mine.

Pairing: Mac/Stella

Rating: PG

Summary: Most days she wishes she could forget, but this is one day when she wishes that she could remember.

Author's notes: I was musing on what could have happened to Stella's parents and this is what I got. Sorry if it sucks.

* * *

The knock on the door came just after 2am on a Saturday night, a rare night when Mac Taylor was actually sleeping at two in the morning. Still, the knock was persistent enough to rouse him from sleep so he figured he might as well go and see who it was.

He wasn't sure why Stella Bonasera's face in the peephole didn't really surprise him.

"Everything okay?" he asked as soon as he could get the chain off the door and open it to let her in.

"I woke you up," was the only answer that she gave, which meant no.

"I don't sleep much anyway," he told her with a shrug. "Come on in."

They didn't say a word as they made their way to Mac's living room and both took a seat on the old, leather sofa there. It was several minutes after that, in fact, before another word was spoken. Mac knew Stella and he knew that sometimes he had to let her work up to saying things. She liked to speak her mind, but she also had a way of shutting down if you pushed too much. And Mac was nothing if not a patient man.

"Today is the day I was born," she informed him.

Mac looked perplexed. He'd known Stella forever and he knew good and well that May 16th was her birthday. And it was only April 29th. "Your birthday is in two weeks," he said.

Stella shrugged, conceding that fact, but still replied, "I was born on April 29th. I just celebrate my birthday on May 16th."

Mac didn't ask why; he knew that she would tell him. She had obviously come here to tell him.

"My mother was Greek, but you knew that. Her father came over from Greece when he was a young man. He wanted America to be his home.

"My mother was born here, somewhere in Brooklyn in the 1940s. She loved New York and her family and her culture. She was beautiful and smart . . . the perfect daughter. And all she ever wanted was to marry a man that she loved and have a family of her own.

"She met my father in Greece when she was visiting relatives for the summer. She was eighteen and he was older, an Italian serviceman stationed in Athens. And my mother fell in love with him from the first moment she saw him. He was the boy in her fantasies, and she knew that she wanted to spend the rest of her life with him.

"So, that summer, they had a great romance. That's what they called it then in households where you couldn't say that you had an affair, you had a 'great romance'. And my grandfather wouldn't even have approved of that.

"By summer's end, my mother was pregnant and my father . . . Well, he wasn't exactly happy. He loved her, but he wasn't . . . free. He had obligations to his country and his people and . . . also, to his wife. This devastated my mother, so she returned to America and to her parent's home.

"When my grandfather learned of the pregnancy, he insisted that she could not raise a child born out of wedlock. Not to mention the child of a married man. So, my mother was sent away to St. Basil's Orphanage, where I was born. The nuns looked after her until she gave birth to me, then they looked after me, after she had to leave me. Over the years, they told me things about her . . . and about myself.

"I have one picture of her, taken on the day that I was born," she pulled a wrinkled black and white photograph from her pocket and handed it to Mac. It showed a beautiful young woman who looked remarkably like Stella. She was looking down at a tiny baby, tears coursing down her cheeks and a smile curling her lips.

"The sisters said that she loved me and didn't want to let me go. But she had to obey her parents and . . ." Her words stopped as her eyes filled. Her face remained still, the only sign of emotion the quiver of her lips and the tears that flowed freely down her cheeks. "Today is the day I was born," she repeated. "But I celebrate my birthday on a different day . . . a day when I didn't lose my mother."

Mac didn't respond. He just moved closer, putting his arms around her and pulling her head to his chest. She stayed that way for hours, crying tears that she'd hidden away for decades. And Mac never said a word. He just held her and let her cry.

Later, when he tucked a blanket around her just after dawn, she grabbed his hand and said, "Thank you, Mac."

He shook his head, dismissing the gratitude as unnecessary. "Whatever you need, you know that."

"I need you," she responded.

"You already have me."

"You'll never leave me." It was a plea more than a statement.

Mac shook his head again and leaned in to lay a kiss to her forehead. "I couldn't if I tried. Sweet dreams." She nodded, closing her eyes as he walked towards the bedroom.

That night, Stella dreamed of her mother. And Mac dreamed of the last woman he would ever love.

* * *

The End

March 22, 2005


End file.
